flay(ed) [fley]
verb (used with object)
1. to strip the skin or outer covering of
2. to criticize or scold with scathing severity
3. to deprive or strip of money or property
He'd tried so hard to act innocent.
She'd bought the act, at first. He was good at it, she had to admit—better than Joffrey had ever been. But still, in the end he couldn't resist trying to taunt her, trying to possess her. Because despite how different they seemed, Ramsay Bolton had one thing in common with the now deceased king: they were both spoiled children at heart. Ramsay had despised Sansa from the very beginning, upset that some girl had moved into his castle to ruin his fun.
So he had tried to scare her. He had told her of all the horrible things he liked to do to people, all of the horrible things he could do to her if she crossed him. She was his wife, after all, and the laws of the land would let him do as he pleased with her.
Sansa Stark just looked at him, met his dead fish eyes with ones just as cold, and said, "Joffrey made me look at my own father's head on a spike. If you want to upset me, you're going to have to do better than that."
He was actually impressed by that. He left her alone for a little while afterwards.
It was his mistake.
Procuring poison hadn't been difficult. Getting it into his food had been even less so; Ramsay Bolton was one of the most hated men in the North, and certainly the most hated man in Winterfell. Sansa wondered if the Boltons had ever been Northerners at all. Surely they must have realized that their treachery would never be forgotten? The North Remembered, just as the maid had said when she first arrived. The smallfolk of Winterfell had known Sansa Stark from a child—they'd watched her argue with her sister, braid her hair with her mother, cheer for her brothers as they sparred with each other. Did the Boltons really think that they stood even a ghost of a chance at holding their place once the rightful heir of Winterfell had returned? They must have: they were all the more foolish for it.
In the end, all it took were a few discreet questions to the apothecary and the serving girls. She didn't want to kill him too quickly; that would have been suspicious. Instead she did it in small doses, sapping away at his strength slowly. First he seemed tired, easily explained away by the stresses of leadership. But then, he became exhausted, and then sickly, and he was finally confined to bed. "It must be an illness," everyone said.
Roose Bolton was wary, naturally, but he was preoccupied with fending off Stannis Baratheon, and his concern was only intellectual; he didn't love his son. Sansa doubted that he loved anyone. Roose had only bothered to legitimize Ramsay because he was useful, and because he had no other heirs—but both of those facts could easily change. The cold truth was that Ramsay Bolton was utterly unloved, and that he hadn't a single protector in the world. Once, that might have made Sansa sad.
Ramsay's chamber had the metallic tang of blood in the air when she entered—the maester had been leeching him, as per Lord Bolton's advice.
Like a good wife, she floated to his side with queenly grace. She perched on the side of his bed and brushed sweaty hair out of his face, gently, like her mother had done for her many times when she was sick. She thought of her poor aunt Lyanna, buried far below in the crypt, because a man such as this had chosen her; decided he would take her and damn the consequences for her or the world.
"Husband," she said softly, "are you still not feeling well?"
He gave a groan, a no.
She smiled. "Good. I'm glad. I heard that you poisoned your brother, you know. So that your father would be forced to name you his heir. It seemed appropriate that I should do the same to you."
He tried to get up, feebly, murder in his blue eyes. But the poison had done its work; he was too weak to even shout for help.
"The last monster that I was supposed to marry was poisoned, too—but I didn't do that, at least not directly. It was the most satisfying moment of my life, to know that he was dead."
Daintily, she slid her hand from his head to the pillow it was resting on. With a tug, she pulled it free.
"I was planning on just letting you die, but I've decided there's really no need for it. You weren't that ill when your father left to war with Stannis—when he returns to find that you've died suddenly, he'll immediately suspect me. This time, I can do it myself."
She placed the pillow over his face, slowly increasing the force that she pushed down with. He thrashed, trying to turn his head, but it was a futile effort.
"This is for my family, Ramsay. I want you to know that you're alone; you're not a Bolton, after all, just some bastard boy that Roose needed to use. He's manipulated you, all along. You're not his heir: he has the Frey woman for that. You were just the spare until he could make a replacement. Was that why you were so cruel? Did you realize how little you mattered to him? Nevermind. Regardless, that doesn't give you the right to be a terrible person."
The rustling of bed-sheets stopped; his feet weren't kicking anymore. Sansa held the pillow in place for several moments more, just to make sure, before taking it away and positioning it back behind his head.
She gathered herself together and swept from the room. Returning to her own chambers, she had one of the maids help her into new clothes. Standing before the mirror, she admired herself. The black dye was fading from her hair, leaving hints of the Tully red visible at the roots: the style of it was simple, tied back like her mother's used to be. She wore her black dress with raven's wings at the shoulder and neck. "Little Bird," the Hound had called her. Perhaps a part of her was a bird, still. Dark wings, dark words.
She was not a songbird, now.
From the closet, she retrieved a fine cloak lined with grey fur. It had belonged to her mother; one of the maids had offered it to her shyly when she first arrived. Apparently, the woman had kept it safe through sieges and fires and Gods knew what else, just to have the chance to give it back to a true Stark.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like her mother. She looked like her Aunt. She looked like the many lines of women embodied in stone in the barrow of her forebears, tall and terrible. All she needed was a sword and a direwolf, and she could have been one of the old queens from before the Targaryen invasion when the Starks were still the Kings of the North. It made her very happy to think so.
Ramsay's death went mostly unremarked. Some of the Bolton men at Winterfell had raised a fuss over their commander's death, but they had been silenced quickly. Even without formal training, the smallfolk vastly outnumbered the soldiers, and their pitchforks and scythes had done the job well enough, if a bit inelegantly. The rest of the men were sworn to various Northern houses, and most had been glad to defect to Sansa's service. Winterfell was hers, and it had come without a fight.
She took up position in the main hall, sitting in the same place that her father once had. Around her gathered the captains, maesters, and smallfolk that she had chosen as advisors. She had taken an assessment of their numbers and food—even if Roose Bolton were to return tomorrow, they would be able to withstand a siege for several weeks.
"Send ravens to the bannermen sworn to Winterfell," Sansa said in a low, clear voice. "Let them know that Winterfell is restored, and that I have reclaimed my family's title as Warden of the North. Command them to remove any support to the traitor Roose Bolton, and to then send such troops here or have them return home. They are to offer no resistance to Stannis Baratheon unless under my specific instruction."
"Yes, my Lady," one of the maesters said. "And what of Stannis Baratheon?"
"Stannis Baratheon seeks the Iron Throne. To have it, he must pass through the North. I will allow him to do so, as long as he adheres to my demands. The North will not be beholden to whatever religion he espouses; there will be no burnings to the Lord of Light as long as I rule. We may be a part of his Seven Kingdoms, but we will be allowed to keep our own ways as we see fit. If he disagrees with this, then we will whittle down his forces as he marches south until he has nothing left to face the Lannisters with. He will submit, or his army will die here."
There was a murmur of admiration at the strength of her words, before another man asked, "And what of Roose Bolton, your Grace? What is to be his fate?"
Sansa Stark smiled then, and it was not kind. "The Boltons have been flaying men for many years, despite it being outlawed by my father. Roose Bolton will be executed for his crimes; he will be the last of his House. I find it fitting that he be the last man to be flayed alive in the North, before I ban the practice altogether. Just as he desecrated my brother's body, let his be desecrated; his hide will be tanned and displayed for all to see. In the centuries to come, every man or woman who comes to Winterfell will be able to see it hanging upon our walls—a gruesome reminder that the Starks will never be eradicated, no matter how far we may seem to fall, and that the price for disloyalty is utter destruction. It will become an event so well-known that the bards will sing of it for years, and it will make the fates of the Reynes of Castamere seem fortunate in comparison."
This time there was only silence. The hall rang with fear and approval, and in that moment Sansa Stark became the only ruler that the North would ever accept. "She's her father's daughter," everyone would say. "No doubt that that one's a Stark."
When Petyr Baelish returned from King's Landing, he found a queen sitting upon an old wooden throne when he had left behind an uncertain young woman. He had a crown of blue winter roses in his hands.
"For you, my Queen," he offered in supplication.
Sansa took them with a kind, genuine smile. "These ones aren't going to start a war, are they?"
He chuckled at her. "No, no they're not. I think, my dear, that you've put a stop to that."
She placed the circlet upon her head, light eyes flashing as they matched the flowers in her hair. "There's always more work to be done, Lord Baelish. Where do we begin?"
AN: This is just a little drabble that I wrote. It's mostly wishful thinking on my part, no doubt the tv series are going to substitute Sansa for Jeyne and have Theon save her (which I really, really, don't want to happen). I just really, really, want Sansa to be a badass ruler who gets shit done.